


untitled cat ficlet

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean and Sam have cats. It's lucky they have experience being pawns of higher powers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled cat ficlet

**Author's Note:**

> insmallpackages fill for a wish for Winchesters and cute cats

“Get off me,” says Dean, without opening his eyes.

The weight doesn’t go away, doesn’t elbow him in the ribs, and doesn’t stick a big, warm hand down his boxers. Also, it’s not crushing the breath out of his lungs. Not Sam, then. And if not Sam . . .

Dean opens his eyes. Yep, it’s The Stare.

“Get off me,” Dean says again, more feebly. The weight rearranges itself, tucking paws and tail in for the long haul. The slitted yellow eyes don’t break contact. Dean’s pretty sure she can rotate her head like an owl. Or like a cat who’s in need of an exorcism. Later. No one exorcizes cats at – Dean twists his head, The Stare following him all the way – at 6:13 AM. 6:13 AM is too early for English, let alone Latin.

Dean tries a kind but firm shove. Basilisk weighed in at seven pounds at her last vet visit. Dean has fought off four hundred pound werewolves. Piece of cake. Except for the damn cat’s mass-of-a-neutron-star superpower. The weight doesn’t budge. The Stare stays fixed. 

“Go bother Sam,” Dean tries next, “Sam can feed you. Sam can entertain you. Sam was the one who wanted cats, you know.” It’s mostly a lie, but there’s no way Basilisk knows that, right? “Go nibble his hair or something.” There are a lot of points where Dean and Basilisk differ in their worldviews, like what time morning is, but they are unanimous on the Sam-needs-a-trim-or-maybe-a-buzzcut front.

Basilisk moves The Stare pointedly to the left. Dean looks. Sam’s side of the bed is empty. Goddammit. Dean’s not going to win against The Stare. He might as well surrender now. 

Basilisk jumps lightly down as soon as Dean shifts to stand and works on tripping him up while he shrugs on his robe. The light is on in the kitchen and there’s coffee in the urn. There’s also a bowl on the counter, a few flakes of Tuna Feast still clinging to its sides. Dean cheers up slightly. He may have just lost a contest of strength with a seven pound fuzzball, but he’s still doing better than Sam. 

He leaves Basilisk with her head buried in a fresh can of Tuna Feast and her tail lashing psychotically and heads for the library with his coffee. Sam is sprawled on the couch, one hand on an open book, the other buried in Cthulhu’s ginger fur. His eyes are shut, his breathing deep and even. His mouth has fallen open and yeah, that hair needs to go, but Dean will grant (at least to himself when Sam is safely unconscious) that its mussed with sleep look is pretty fucking adorable.

“Get off him,” Dean says to Cthulhu. Cthulhu blinks and flexes the giant orange paw he’s got stretched over Sam’s neck. Clearly this is a hostage situation. Well, Dean can do prudence. There’s enough of Sam to go around. He sets down his coffee and drapes himself carefully over the unoccupied parts of the Sam. He may need access to the neck eventually, but he can negotiate. Cthulhu closes his eyes and settles to sleep. Sam snorts and stirs.

“Get off me,” he says, shoving ineffectually at Dean. Which is unfair. Sam’s not pushing Cthulhu off, and Dean’s got more right to lie on Sam than a cat. He’s Sam’s brother, after all. 

“Morning,” he says in Sam’s ear. “Wakey-wakey. Rise and shine. Time to get up.” He emphasizes the ‘up’ with a suggestive wriggle of his hips. Sam’s face twists with muzzy annoyance.

“Fuck off, Dean,” he says. “Jesus. First Cthulhu gets me up for five AM breakfast, and now you. There’s no fucking peace in this place.”

“You should have more willpower,” says Dean. “You’re pussy-whipped.” 

Sam groans.

“That joke was unfunny the first five hundred times,” he says. He extracts his arm from under Dean and squints at his watch. “Anyway, what are _you_ doing up at 6:30?”

Dean doesn’t answer. Sam starts to smile. Basilisk, unerring little bastard, jumps onto the back of the couch and sets about smugly cleaning tuna off her whiskers.

“Yeah, well,” says Dean, “we’re both up. Nowhere to be till eleven. Might as well practice good time management.” 

Most people, Dean suspects, can’t make “time management” into innuendo, but Dean is awesome that way. Sam seems to agree, because he wraps a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him closer. Dean noses at the hair behind Sam’s ear. (All right, so maybe sometimes he likes Sam’s hair, just a little. So shoot him.) Cthulu, jostled, stands up, yawns hugely, climbs onto the small of Dean’s back, and settles with anchoring claws.

“Ow,” says Dean, “get _off_ me.” The cat ignores him. Sam laughs.


End file.
